


A Leap Towards Silliness

by Ponaco



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, adulting like a boss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9071131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponaco/pseuds/Ponaco
Summary: A moment of rest between missions in the Emerald Graves leads to shenanigans. Dorian enjoys the show. (later chapters will be a little more...adult themed :0)





	1. Chapter 1

It was a rare thing to relax. A rare and beautiful thing that Dorian would cherish and protect like a fragile, baby bird fallen from the nest. A cloudless, blue sky peeked around the canopy of trees and filtered warm sunlight down onto the pool beside the waterfall. Although he didn’t fancy joining the more rambunctious members of their party beneath the spray of water Dorian couldn’t resist freeing himself of his boots to wiggle his toes unencumbered in the soft grass along the water’s edge. Leaning back against a tree trunk with a book perched on his knees he could use its pages to hide his wandering eyes.

“Oi! Out of the way down there!” Sera screeched from the mossy outcrop atop the waterfall. 

She leapt off the ledge just as the Iron Bull and a few startled members of the Chargers swam for safety. Sera hit the water belly first, earning a collective gasp and groan from all who witnessed the flop of a landing. Breaking the surface, her hair plastered to her forehead and a what Dorian would describe as a ‘shit-eating,’ grin stretched across the face she let out a war cry and pounded her chest before doubling over in a grimace that was equal parts laughter and pain.

“Ha! Beat that, Inquisitor!” she yelled up at the lone figure still atop the waterfall.

The thin façade of reading forgotten Dorian lowered the book to watch, breath-held, eyes unblinking. Even at such a distance he could see the light shine off the streaks of gray in Rawley’s once dark hair. The afternoon spent in the sun turned his shoulders a dark brown that bordered on red in places. He inched towards the edge of the cliff, his toes curled in the mud as he looked down at the pool below. Dorian thought for one brief moment that he wasn’t going to jump. He hoped he wouldn’t jump. The rocks beneath the falls looking sharper and more jagged with every passing moment. An extremely lewd and colorful taunt from down below was enough encouragement to push him over the edge. 

Dorian’s eyes widened, watching the less-than graceful leap end in a quick descent and a cannonball that sent water splashing in every direction. Rawley broke the surface, sputtered and coughed, pushing the water from his eyes to grin in Sera’s general direction. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the raucous sounds of the argument that followed over who had indeed won the loosely defined competition.

“Careful, My Dear. If you keep staring like that more of those rumors Mother Geisel chided you over will start to circulate.”

The quiet, cool statement snapped his attention back to the forgotten pages with a speed that suggested nothing but guilt. If pressed Dorian would blame the increased warmth along his neck and face on the sun. Vivienne sat beside him in a graceful flourish of her robes and fixed him with a knowing smile that only made the heat around his collar burn brighter.

“I am certain I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, the lie losing some of its credence as he was forced to clear his throat to get the words out.

“Of course not,” she said, tilting her face towards the sunshine. “Our Lord Inquisitor is quite the athlete, is he not?” she asked, not bothering to open her eyes as the question ended in a smile on her lips. 

As if secretly aware of the conversation and determined to prove Vivienne wrong Rawley let out a sharp cry like an angry Drasolisk as he tripped in his attempt to avoid a well-aimed mud-pie thrown his way. He landed in a heap at the pool’s edge before slowly sliding back into the water. Dorian pursed his lips and raised his chin, closing his book cover with a resonate snap of the old leather.

“Yes, grace incarnate,” he replied, turning to her with a dead-pan expression, daring her to disagree. 

“Bull! Hold still, I’m going to climb up you!”

Dorian fought the urge to face palm at the shout and the failed backflip from the Iron Bull’s shoulders that followed.

“Grace indeed,” Vivienne agreed, a tiny clip of a laugh breaking past a tight-lipped smirk.

Dorian’s shoulders bristled and he turned his attention back to the pool. No longer bothering to feign disinterest. He was used to this sort of game. Thinly veiled insults and quips passed between those who saw each other as equals. It was a perverse showing of affection that could often lead to hurt feelings to those who were not sure of the rules. It never bothered him before. He thrived on the quick thinking and the turns needed to outpace his linguistic competitors. It did not bother him when the insults were aimed in his direction. He knew how to deflect them. He found himself less inclined to enjoy the back and forth when Rawley Trevelyan was the game’s target. 

“I do not always agree with the Inquisitor’s decisions,” Vivienne said quietly. “But I understand why you are drawn to him. Why many are. He’s a bit like fresh air, is he not?”

The blatant truth of the words caused Dorian pause. Gone was the game in the space of a breath and the absence of it left him struggling to respond. A firm hand rested on his arm. The smile on her face no longer tight and teasing, but soft and genuine; a silent affirmation of understanding that left him dumbfounded by the sheer newness of it all. He was not understood. Tolerated and enjoyed like the passing conversation at a party, but never understood. 

“Yes,” he replied, clearing his throat of the troublesome tightness that plagued every attempt at speech. “He is indeed.”

“Dorian! Dorian, look! We’re a dragon!” Rawley shouted from his perch atop the Iron Bull’s shoulders.

Two large ferns held in each hand the Bull flapped his arms while Sera did her best impression of a swishing tail and Rawley set off a blast of fire that singed the nearest trees and sent birds flying. The three dissolved into a fit of laughter that dissolved even further into a splash war. Dorian laughed despite himself, finding every passing day a battle to keep his carefully built walls of aloofness in place. He had been called many things in his short life, but silly was never even close to the usual accusations or monikers. He was finding a worrisome fondness for silliness as of late.

“Although, sometimes I do fear he’ll accidentally set himself on fire and burn down the entirety of Skyhold in the process,” Vivienne murmured, unable to keep the teasing smile from cracking her refined exterior.

The smile settled on Dorian’s face stretched into a grin as another blast of fire ignited the growth of plants along the bank in flash of flame and smoke.

“Sorry! Sorry! I got it!” Rawley cried, flailing off his perch to douse the flames with a hiss of ice and snow.

“That’s not…an entirely unfounded fear,” Dorian replied. “But, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who left kudos and comments, it means a lot! Hope you like the next chapter :0)

The Inquisitor’s tent was nothing grand; tan canvas on wooden pegs like the rest of the camp. He did have the luxury of not having to share the space, however rustic it might be, and Dorian for one was grateful for the limited privacy. He straightened his clothes, brushing off a few stray blades of grass and smoothed out his mustache between careful fingers. The long treks away from Skyhold did not afford many opportunities to preen or even rid his clothing of its ever-present layer of mud and even less appealing viscera after a battle. He longed for a hot bath and another change of clothes, but this far from proper civilization a quick dip in a cold stream and a thin layer of canvas between them and prying eyes would have to do.

“Inquisitor?” he called softly, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone watched him linger outside the Inquisitor’s tent.

It felt strange to call him Inquisitor. The title was unforgivingly formal and unfamiliar, something to be said while bowing or following orders. Trevelyan might have done, but Dorian couldn’t bring himself to try. It was something the Iron Bull or Varric could get away with, accompanied by a ruff slap on the back and a loud laugh or among some over-exaggerated tales of conquest around the fire. Calling him by his first name was undeniably intimate and not preferable in joint company. Although the handful of times Dorian slipped and called him Rawley the resulting smile was enough to make him risk doing it again.

“Come in,” Rawley said from inside the tent, his voice muffled.

Dorian pulled back the canvas flap and ducked inside. He carefully tied the covering into place and turned around amid a swish of his robe he hoped looked dashing. A pout settled on his lips as all his efforts were for naught. Rawley sat on the ground, his back facing the entrance, oblivious to Dorian’s attempts at enticement. Sunburn, angry and red stretched across the Inquisitor’s shoulders and down his back, settling just above the waistband of his breeches. 

“What in Andraste’s name are you doing?” Dorian asked, watching the other man attempt to reach in-between his own shoulder blades with very limited success.

“I got a little burned,” he replied amid another flail of his arms. “I’m trying to put some of this elfroot ointment on it. Stitches said it will help.”

Dorian sighed and took off his outermost cloak. “While I don’t doubt that, why didn’t you take a healing potion?” he asked, kneeling down beside him.

“I hate that stuff, makes my stomach hurt,” he replied, crinkling his nose in a way that made Dorian want nothing more than to kiss it. “Besides, it’s just a sunburn.”

Dorian fought the urge to lean forward and steal some of the heat that radiated off the Inquisitor’s bare chest. Even on days blessed with sunshine Dorian cursed the South’s persistent chill. He cleared his throat and shooed away the loudest of his increasingly lewd thoughts and held out his hand expectantly.

“May I?” he asked, raising one slender eyebrow in triumphant at the instant blush that fought for dominance with the sunburn across the Inquisitor’s now freckled shoulders.

“Oh, umm, yes. I mean, if you don’t mind,” Rawley stammered, handing over the small potion bottle. “I can’t quite reach.”

“I assure you, I do not mind,” Dorian replied, taking the bottle.

The ointment certainly smelled of elfroot and made Dorian’s hands tingle the instant it met his skin. He murmured a quiet incantation and willed his hands cold to the touch. Rawley hissed and flinched when he touched the burn, the sudden reaction quickly melting away as the ointment and cold started to dull the sting. His shoulders dropped and a content sigh left his lips, making Dorian’s chest tighten at the sound of it. He worked his hands over the taunt muscles of his shoulders and skirted nimble fingers along the contours of his ribs long past the need to apply the medicine. He lingered around the slight of curve of his waist and ghosted a light touch just above his backside. The resulting moan made him smile.

“Did that hurt?” Dorian asked, knowing full well it did not.

“No…no didn’t hurt,” Rawley murmured, seemingly unable to sit still under the continued ministrations of Dorian’s hands. “Feels good.”

Dorian brought his hands back up to Rawley’s shoulders and gave a squeeze that made the other man whimper. Emboldened he leaned forward a pressed a kiss behind his right ear. He smelled of sunshine and elfroot and the intoxicating warmth coming off of him in waves enticed Dorian to steal another taste.

“I could do your front if you would like,” he purred, gently biting his earlobe.

Dorian was no stranger to seduction. The skilled press of hands or lips, coupled with a carefully worded exchange said in a silken voice. The game was a familiar one that earned a familiar outcome. In his homeland a relationship between two men was about pleasure. Such obvious moves towards a forgone conclusion were usually understood and hurriedly reciprocated. Skilled hands and thinly veiled allusions to something physically intimate were not however, in Dorian’s experience, met with a snort of laughter that rattled deep in the other man’s chest and threatened to burst forth around the hand he clamped firmly over his own mouth.

“S-sorry, I didn’t…it’s just…sorry,” Rawley said, holding up his other hand and struggling to find coherent words amid his seemingly unstoppable fit of laughter. 

“Well, I’m glad you find my advances so hilarious,” Dorian said. 

He gave haughty sniff in hopes that it would hide any of the true hurt that bubbled beneath the surface. He reached for his folded robe and deemed to make a hasty exit. The Inquisitor’s hand around his wrist startled him back to sitting. Concerned eyes, wide and sincere in their conviction stared up at him. It was more than a little unnerving to fall under such a gaze. It left him open and vulnerable, neither of which he longed to be.

“I’m sorry, please…don’t go,” he said, giving Dorian’s wrist a gentle squeeze. “I didn’t mean to ruin things,” he insisted, his ears practically glowing red. “I’m not…I’m rubbish at this stuff and you’re…you’re intimidating,” he said, lowering his head to stare down at his hands. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

Dorian pouted for a few moments longer, not unwilling to admit that he slightly enjoyed watching him squirm. He sighed and gave a flippant wave of his hand that wasn’t currently held strong in Rawley’s grasp.

“Well, I suppose I can forgive you this once,” he said, offering a slight flip of his hair. “I forget how disarming my beauty and charm can be to others. Honestly, it…”

Rawley cut any further grandstanding short. He took hold of the front of Dorian’s robes and pulled him into a heated kiss. It was a rushed, urgent thing that deepened in an instant and quickly left them both struggling for breath. Dorian pressed forward into Rawley’s eager embrace, doing his best to hold back a moan at the delightful rush of heat radiating off his skin. A string of muttered curses tumbled from Rawley’s mouth as he fumbled among the overly intricate twist and turns of Dorian’s robes. Dorian placed a gentle hand over his, stopping him from ripping open the clasp in frustration.

“It’s all right,” Dorian murmured. “No need to rush things. I dare say we have all night.”

He undid the first clasp and the buckle beneath it, allowing the strap to slide from his shoulder. He delighted in the thud it made when it hit the ground. The smile faltered at the downcast eyes and frown that met his gaze. Dorian lifted his hand to gently cup the side of Rawley’s face, his fingers brushing against the shortened hair at the back of his head. He pulled him into a kiss. It was soft and languid, a slow, swipe of tongues and firm press of lips.

“Better?” Dorian asked, leaning in until their foreheads touched. “Relaxed?”

He punctuated the question with a slow slide of his hand down Rawley’s back. He shivered under the touch and raised a tentative hand to Dorian’s arm. He held, tight, eyes still cast downward as he bit his bottom lip.

“I was surprised you…I mean, I didn’t expect you to be here…in my tent,” he murmured, wincing at the stuttering of his own words. “You’ve been avoiding me since…since that night in my chambers,” he added, a flash of red racing from the tips of his ears to spread across his collarbone. “I figured you lost interest. Got scared away when…when I said I wanted more.”

Dorian remembered everything about that night. Every last detail etched in his mind, always just beneath the surface waiting to spring forward at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t the memory of the physical that found him in the dark of night when sleep avoided him. It was that quiet plea he said now, the admittance that he wanted more. The idea struck so foreign in Dorian’s mind he struggled to come to terms with it. Fear and uncertainty may have caused him to be aloof, to build his walls high once more. It was the game he knew how to play. A night of unbridled passion followed by days of subtle hints and closely held discretion. He hadn’t fully accepted that those words said with such conviction could be true. He kept his hand alongside Rawley’s face, afraid if he let go he would disappear like smoke; some wonderful dream he was too stubborn to hold on to.

“I was attempting to be discrete,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. “I have certainly not lost interest, I assure you, quite the opposite in fact,” he insisted. He tightened his grip and attempted to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. “I am however, reticent to admit you aren’t entirely wrong about my fear,” he said, taking a deep breath and forcing his gaze upwards. “No one has ever suggested such a thing as…more,” he smiled, mirroring Rawley’s words from only a few moments past. “You intimidate me.”

“I intimidate you?” Rawley asked around a tiny chuckle and more than a hint of doubt clinging to his words. 

The tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth chased away any of Dorian’s lingering fear and sent a flash of warmth throughout his chest. He leaned in for a kiss, pressing his lips against that smile with the lightest of touches. 

“Oh yes,” he murmured, kissing the very corner of Rawley’s mouth. “You are very intimidating. The Herald of Andraste making grand proclamations about his romantic intentions. It left me practically aquiver with nerves.”

A snort of laughter rumbled in Rawley’s chest and Dorian pressed against him to feel the vibrations reverberate through his skin. 

“Well, I certainly didn’t mean to make you quiver,” Rawley replied, dissolving into another burst of laughter. “I’m sorry, this is just so…I’m not good at this.”

His laughter was warm and sincere, as it always was. The happy sound filled the tent and rang beautifully in Dorian’s ears. He wanted to hear that sound forever, to start and end his days wrapped in its delightful glow. The smile that accompanied the sound was as always, a welcomed bonus. Dorian’s thumb gently traced the edge of that smile, committing each perfect curve to memory. A breath of fresh air Vivienne had called him, and he was. Something new and vibrant that shook Dorian to his foundation, but gently coaxed him out from behind his walls with something as simple as a smile.

“Now there you see, my Darling is where you are entirely wrong,” Dorian said, clicking his tongue in disapproval before stealing a kiss. He moved his fingers to slide through Rawley’s hair as he deepened the kiss. Firm lips and an eager tongue that left the other man whimpering for more when Dorian pulled back. “You are in fact, very good at this.”


	3. Chapter 3

This wasn’t the first time Dorian woke before the dawn to creep from a lover’s bed under the cloak of darkness. He knew the steps of such a dance, the quiet footfalls of discretion hidden beneath a carefully chosen path to his own quarters. Such a journey usually transpired after an evening of bliss or on several memorable occasions, mind-blowing pleasure. This was a first however, that his attempt to sneak away followed a night with nothing more salacious than a few heated kisses. It was an odd thing to sleep beside another without the implicit knowledge that he was only there to fill a physical need. 

Dorian fumbled in the darkness to find his shirt, not wanting to risk lighting a flame that might wake the still-sleeping man beside him on the bedroll. Even in the darkness he took a moment to appreciate the slight pout of his bottom lip and the crinkle of his nose amid what he assumed to be a vivid dream. He fought the urge to reach out and brush aside a stray strand of hair that draped across his forehead. 

“Hmm…what are you doing?” Rawley murmured, his eyes fluttering open to peer into the darkness.

There was a moment, no longer than a heartbeat that Dorian considered not answering. He could still slip outside. Quiet and capricious as smoke. Nothing but a dream to someone still half-lingering in sleep. If this was the past he would have left without a second thought, but this wasn’t the past and the concerned crease in the Inquisitor’s brow pulled his chest tight and bade him to explain his actions.

“I’m going to my tent, Darling,” he whispered, leaning over to press a kiss to Rawley’s temple. “Go back to sleep. You need your rest.”

A frown settled on Rawley’s lips, heavy and undeniable. “It’s still dark out, come back to bed,” he grumbled, holding out his arms expectantly.

Dorian took hold of one of the grasping hands and brushed a kiss across the knuckles. “That’s rather the point,” he said, his attempt at a smile not quite hitting the mark. “It wouldn’t be discrete if I strolled from your tent in the harsh light of day.”

He let Rawley’s hand fall from his grasp and turned his attention once more to getting dressed. The tightness in his chest grew with each passing moment and he hurried to pull on the first layer of his shirt, fearing his resolve would crumble the longer he remained at his side. Strong arms wrapped around him from behind. The embrace caused him to go rigid at the sudden touch. Warmth spreading along his back and across his shoulders until the tightness in his chest uncoiled and the tension in his muscles melted away. A soft kiss to the back of his neck pulled a quiet sigh from Dorian’s lips and caused him to lean back into the embrace.

“Come back to bed.”

The whispered command and the searing kiss to his neck that followed sent a shiver throughout Dorian’s body. This wasn’t how the game was played. The men who shared his bed did not ask him to stay. Stolen kisses and hushed whispers were meant for moonlight and never cascaded into the warmth of day. A longing, urgent and burning flared to life in his chest as he reached up to grasp the arms wrapped around him. His grip tightened, afraid if he let go he might wake and find this all to have been a dream.

“There’s still hours before sunrise,” Rawley breathed, pressing his chest flush against Dorian. “Come back to bed.”

“And when the sun does rise? What then? We stroll from the tent, hand in hand? Just think of the rumors,” Dorian countered. 

“So what if we did,” Rawley said. He trailed a slow, lazy path of kisses to Dorian’s ear. “They already talk,” he added, his teeth teasing the curve of his ear. “Might as well give them some new material.”

Dorian laughed, the sound mocking even to his own ears. The bite of it loosened Rawley’s grip on him and deterred another kiss to his skin. He swallowed back the bitter sound, the taste of it foul and lingering in his mouth. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so harsh, nor cruel. It was the tone he would have used before. Cool and aloof as though he was still playing the game. As though the whispered promise of more was nothing but a jest; as though he didn’t long for it with every part of him.

“Your shirt is by the door.”

Rawley’s arms let go and the cold came rushing back, biting and unrelenting in the darkness of the tent. Wind rustled the canvas of the tent walls and the chirp of insects dulled to the growing beat of Dorian’s heart in his chest. He sat still, unmoving. His hands gripped his forearms as he stared down at Rawley, now lying with his back to him on the bedroll. This wasn’t before. He didn’t want to sneak away in that night into the cold. It was reckless of the Inquisitor to want to flaunt whatever this was so openly. He was not used to the public eye, to the importance of their opinion when he was in a position of power. Dorian would never want to jeopardize Rawley’s tentative hold over their good graces. He didn’t want to be the cause of ill-will, but he didn’t want to leave his tent either.

“Scoot,” Dorian said, flopping back down onto the bedroll amid a huff and a flail of his arms in an attempt to cover both of them under the blankets.

Rawley rolled onto his side, the suspicious curve of his mouth evident even in the darkness. “I thought you wanted to go.”

“No,” Dorian murmured, his arm wrapping around him as Rawley rested his head atop his chest. “No, I don’t want to go.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian hated the Hissing Wastes. Even the glorious heat of the day couldn’t make up for the traitorous dip in the temperature come nightfall, the local wildlife intent on murdering their entire company, and the sand. Oh, how he loathed that horrible sand. It filled his boots and wiggled into every fold and crevice of his clothing. The coarse, persistent granules stung his eyes, crunched between his teeth and found their way into places better left un-sanded. He hated the Hissing Wastes.

The Inquisition forces set up a tiny city of tents amongst the dunes. A group of researchers squabbled with increasingly louder voices over a pile of dusty scrolls and ancient dwarven artifacts. Dorian itched to take part in the lively argument. Enthusiastic academic discussion was not exactly easy to come by in the middle of the endless desert. Academic discussion on a topic of which he was knowledgeable even more difficult to find it seemed after quietly sitting among spirited argument over the proper storage of ancient Dwarven earthenware.

His thoughts wandered, as they seemed most likely as of late, to the Inquisitor. Trevelyan didn’t seem to hate the Hissing Wastes as Dorian did. In fact, it appeared quite the opposite. He marveled at the Dwarven ruins atop the dunes and set his dracolisk to full speed across the never ending sand. The horrible beast would bellow and trumpet his disdain for the uneven ground, but was not the kind of creature to back down from a challenge. The memory of Rawley’s grinning face upturned towards the harsh midday sun set Dorian’s stomach into a pleasant squirm he would never admit to. When his gaze was detected and the smile turned in his direction the squirm sent a rush of fire coursing through his entire body. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain cool and aloof in his presence. 

Dorian did his best to search the campsite for him without looking as though that was his precise intent. The line for dinner trickled down to a few stragglers and scouts returning from their posts. He followed the raucous sounds of revelry that would undoubtedly lead to the Chargers. If Rawley was not to be found by the food tent it was a safe bet that he would be seated with the rowdy group of mercenaries; grinning at Bull’s horrible jokes or listening wide-eyed to their tales of epic battles and close calls. A frown that bordered dangerously towards a pout settled on Dorian’s lips as the Charger’s campfire appeared free of a certain young mage.

“He’s up on the ridge.”

Dorian did not have to turn and look at Varric to know the dwarf was smirking. The slight lilt to his words, said in that infuriating way that suggested he knew better than everyone else in the room. Dorian was not overly fond of being wrong or losing at any sort of game, imagined or otherwise. He turned, nose raised in the air and his hand at the ready to wave dismissively at any further comments.

“I’m sorry, are you speaking to me?” he asked, bristling at the smug laugh his attempt at nonchalant garnered.

“Yes, Sparkler,” Varric replied around another gruff chuckle. “You trying to tell me you’re not prowling about for our beloved Inquisitor? If not your choice of his usual haunts is quite the coincidence.”

“I was not prowling,” Dorian hissed, warmth spreading in a treacherous path across his face. 

He was not one to blush. If pressed he would blame the rise in color on the remaining heat of the day. Judging by the smirk on Varric’s face he wouldn’t believe him.

“Right, of course, an honest mistake,” Varric said. He let out another infuriating chuckle and lifted his hands in defense.

Dorian huffed through his nose, his mounting desire to find Rawley quickly outweighing any flicker of pride clinging to his thoughts. “So…on the ridge you say?” he said, adding a dismissive wave of his hand as though he wasn’t hanging on the dwarf’s every word. 

To his credit Varric didn’t prolong his teasing. He was known to give comrades a hard time, but he was never one for open cruelty. “Under the statue to the west.”

Dorian fought the urge to turn immediately in the offered direction and instead managed a small bow of gratitude. “I think perhaps I will see if the Inquisitor…needs anything.”  
He turned on his heel before another blush could betray him. The sand crunched beneath his boots, every new step proving more difficult as the incline steepened. Noise from the camp faded into the endless expanse of the sky above and a pale green veil fire beneath the looming stone giant marked his destination. The mere thought of who sat waiting beneath that statue sent a flutter through his chest and caused an unabashed smile to spread across his face. It wasn’t so long ago that he would chide himself for such a reaction. It was silly and dangerous to give into flights of fancy, to let another occupy his thoughts so completely. There was a time he would curse such thoughts and force them from his mind. He felt as though that was a life time ago.

“Dorian.”

He was certain he would never tire of hearing his name spoken in such a way. A warm smile followed the Inquisitor’s excited tone, the green tint of the veil fire casting dancing shadows over his face. Rawley sat beneath the torch, atop a patchwork quilt, a large book spread across his lap. He set the book aside and moved over to make room for another beside him on the quilt.

“I was hoping you’d find your way up here,” he said, dusting off as much sand from the fabric as he could manage. “I know you were busy with the researchers.”

“I must admit their topic of debate was not concerning one of my areas of expertise,” Dorian replied. “And if your hope was to be found you may have chosen a more conspicuous location.”

He flicked out the bottom of his robes and made a show of sitting down beside him, keenly aware that a pair of fetching green eyes watched his every move. He smoothed out his robes and reached for the discarded book. Dorian’s curiosity could not be quelled even if he was placing the majority of his energy into appearing alluring. 

“Taken up a new interest in astronomy have you?” he asked, running his fingers over the faded page covered in star charts.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a new interest,” Rawley replied, pressing up against Dorian to follow his course across the chart. “I’ve always loved the stars,” he said, leaning back on his palms as he turned his face towards the sky. “And have you ever seen so many in all your life? Beautiful.”

Dorian hated the Hissing Wastes. He hated the sand and the endless stretch of horizon that grew no closer no matter how many times you crossed it. Despite this deep-held animosity he felt a certain amount of gratitude for any place that could place such a look of awe on the Inquisitor’s face. 

“Yes…beautiful,” Dorian murmured, never lifting his gaze towards the sky.

“I used to track them from the tower at the Circle,” Rawley said, his voice small in the great expanse. “The lights from Ostwick dulled most of them, but I would try and remember the sky at my family’s estate outside the city. Those were the same stars.”

There was a quiet sadness in his words. A melancholy gained only in loss. Dorian reached for his hand. Such a simple gesture and yet it set his heart racing. Eager fingers laced with his, warm and strong against his skin. Faces tilted towards the sky Dorian’s heart raced for another reason as Rawley gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“You don’t speak of it much,” Dorian said. “Your home, your family.”

“Ostwick hasn’t been my home since the day they took me to the Circle,” Rawley replied, a small shrug raising his shoulders. Sadness clung to his words with icy, persistent fingers; the weight of it faltering slightly under the glimmer of hope in his eyes. “But Skyhold is starting to feel like one. Don’t you think?”

“That’s awfully sentimental of you,” Dorian said, instantly regretting the flippant remark as Rawley’s face fell in response.

“I…it’s nice to have somewhere to go back to, is what I meant,” he murmured. “With the people I care about.”

The warmth in Dorian’s chest rushed from his body as he felt the fingers laced with his slip away. He curled his fingers into the quilt beneath them, the sand underneath shifting and sliding along the fabric. Sentimentality was something in his past that always came veiled in sarcasm. It more often than not accompanied an expert roll of the eyes and equally biting reply. Earnestness was an entirely different creature altogether. One he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around. He wasn’t beyond trying. Especially if it meant banishing the hurt expression now firmly etched on the Inquisitor’s face.

“It is nice,” Dorian said, doing his best to sound sincere in his own right. 

He reached up with careful fingers to frame Rawley’s face. His skin was warm to the touch as it ever was; fire masked under flesh and bone. He longed to be near it. To forever bask in the glow of it. A kiss pressed to slightly parted lips, chaste by most accounts, set Dorian’s heart fluttering once more. It was terrifying in its innocence; sharp and clear like his first kiss all those years ago in Tevinter.

“To have someone to come home to.”

Dorian whispered the words into the expanse. The great blanket of stars above seemed to suffocate them in those few terrible moments when they went unanswered; hanging like spirits under the night sky. He sighed into another kiss, this one more urgent than the last. Lips parted eagerly to the slide of his tongue. He pulled Rawley towards him, his fingers sliding through his hair as his heart drummed an ever increasing rhythm in his chest. His heart threatening to skip a beat at the whispered reply from the man beside him.

“You always will.”


End file.
